


A Dance Among the Corpses

by NihilismPastry



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Drug Use, F/M, Horrtale and Mobtale AU, Monsters on the Surface, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-14 22:10:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NihilismPastry/pseuds/NihilismPastry
Summary: Greed was a sickness that the monsters may have brought, but the humans were more than happy to indulge in. Afterall, it was the humans that allowed the monsters to form their corrupt gangs, to section off the parts of Ebott that was falling to the disease, to feed the useless ones to the monsters from under the mountain. It was greed that had led you to take the dust from the ground, to try and sell it to the highest bidder, and to get caught by a ferocious monster Don...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Gore Level: Low
> 
> Look who had a story idea! This one has been around since boot camp, but it's only now that I finally got all the parts together and made it into a functional story. As you can see, Horrortale is still my go to. However, this is a 'what if' as to what would happen if someone actually let these crazies onto the surface.

The humans were the ones who attacked first. 

That was the gossip that twisted around the small factory, scaring a good portion of the workers, and giving a sick sense of pride to the others. Humans didn't usually start the fights on the streets, it was typically the monsters fault. They always started the fights, set the churches on fire, or would go murdering families straight out of their beds, and eating the corpses. It was always their fault, so it was almost refreshing to hear that it was the humans that started a fight, and even won it at the end of the night. The dust on the streets that morning wasn't from the old factories today, and more than one human had swept it up and tried to bottle and sell it for the low low price of fifty cents a vial. A few people parted with their hard earned cash, but most people knew not to waste it on something so frivolous. Not because they needed the money, goodness knew they did, but because the monsters could be watching.

You'd been one of those people who swept up the remains. Not because you'd wanted to sell it, but more because it hadn't looked very good to your boss, Caleb, the factory supervisor. He'd taken one look at the dust clump on the doorsteps leading up to the office, and had demanded for you, of all people, to sweep it up. You'd gone to fetch a broom without a word, happy to be away from the heavy machinery that was just as likely to kill you as a monster. You finished the job of sweeping up the dust, and glanced around, the dustpan heavy in your hand. Now what? A few of the passerby's stared at you, but most kept moving, having better things to do than watch some dirty girl go about her business. Your tongue darted out and licked your cracked lips. It felt wrong to dump someone's remains into the trash, almost like those grizzly abortions that happened in the basement of your apartment. It was normal to find chunks of blood, and body parts in the trashcan, a proper burial not even bothered with. 

You took in a deep breath and went inside the office. There was no one in the small room except the secretary, the blonde was scribbling something on a sheet of paper, not paying any attention to you. Taking that as a blessing, you swiped one of the newspapers off a plush chair against the wall, and slipped back outside. Instead of staying on the steps, you made your way to the side of the old factory, down a small alleyway. A few kids were hunched over a game of marbles, their hallow eyes staring at you as you knelt down and set the dust pan and your newspaper on the cracked pavement. One of the kids began to stand up, mouth wide, but a red haired girl pulled him back down, a thick accent lacing her voice as she told him to sit back down. 

You turned your attention back to your chore. You carefully unfolded the newspaper, before folding the corners, and down the sides in order to create an almost envelope like shape. She then plucked up the dustpan, and slowly poured the contents into the envelope. Once every speck was in the envelope, she folded the top down, securing it the best she could, with what she had. "Father, Son, Holy Ghost, please bless this soul."

Saying a prayer for a monster probably wasn't a bad idea. Ghosts could come back and haunt the factory if a soul wasn't settled, at least that was what her mother had told her as a child. A good funeral, a prayer, and a decent meal after both was what would keep a ghost in either heaven or hell. She sighed and tucked the envelope into her pocket, before pushing herself up, dustpan in hand.

Well, she had dilly dallied enough for now, it was time to go play with the machines. 

* * *

You were slick with sweat, and filled with heavy bones as you made your way home. There had been a fire, and all hands had been called to try and stop it. Of course that meant that there was still work to be done afterwards, and a very angry owner screaming at the top of his lungs. Caleb had tried to make every possible excuse in the book, making it seem not as bad as it was, but Mr. Rossi was clear in his anger. Everything was to be put to right before the meeting with the big fish tomorrow afternoon, which meant everyone had to drag themselves to work three hours early. You pulled open the iron gate to your home, the old metal squealing your return to the entire street, even scaring off the old tom cat off the pear tree bough. 

You slipped inside, before shutting the gate behind you, and made your way down the run down pathway. They led up to a stone staircase that was banged up and chipped in far too many places. You pushed open the door, a cool draft pushing over you, giving a short relief compared to the oppressive heat of summer on your back. You carefully shut the door, and the entire foray was dark. As you waited for your eyes to adjust, you took off your hat, and kicked the dirt off your boots, and onto the dingy welcome mat someone had donated last Christmas. 

"Home at last." You muttered to no one in particular. You slowly made your way through the dark hall, your boots scarping along the stone, making a quieter noise than the rats in the walls. You made a sharp right, and went into a small room that had a fireplace, and one of those fancy stoves that some big fish had donated a few months back, there was a pot on it, something dark brown clinging to the shiny surface. You opened the lid, and peered inside, your nose wrinkling as the smell of chilies and rice burned your nose.

Sister May must have tried to cook again. 

You put the lid back on, and reached up to the cupboards, shifting through the many spices from the back garden, just to find a small can of jam. You took it down and dug a hand in your pocket. "I know I didn't eat all the lunch..."

Your hand bumped into something stiff and dry, a texture that was definitely not bread. You pulled it out and held it up, your eyes squinting, trying to see it better in the dark. It was newspaper...The cogs in your brain clicked, and you carefully set the jam down, before cradling the precious cargo with both hands. It was the monster dust from that morning, you'd forgotten about it during the day's events. You gave a second glance to the jam, before swiping it up, and shoving it in the previously occupied pocket of your dress. 

You made your way out of the kitchen, mindful to closing the door, before going back into the hall. You went back to a large set of hardwood doors that were close to the entrance, and used your shoulder to open one. It smelled heavily of smoke and incense, a smell that had taken up your entire childhood thanks to your mother's less than Godly 'rituals'. Your boots were muffled now thanks to the blue carpets, and moonlight filtered into the room through the high stained glass windows, making it easier to see. It was a full moon, and it was deadly close to the witching hour. 

You went to the wooden alter, tiny candles were lit, all of them prayers for the dead. There was twice as many as when you went to work that morning, you wondered how many more people had died within the hospital wing today. You knelt down and lit a candle, using someone else's as the fuel, and set the envelope down. With a shaky sigh you shut your eyes, and began saying a prayer. It wasn't anything elaborate, just a wish to save a soul, or at least not have said soul haunt you or the factory you worked at. Once you felt you'd been on your knees for an adequate amoutn of time, you searched your pockets again, and found the chunk of bread. You popped open the jam, and dipped a finger in, and spread the sticky blueberry jam all over the crusty surface. 

It was a simple meal, but it helped dampen the clawing sensation in your gut. Granted, it was always there, but food helped stop it, if only a tiny bit. You swallowed thickly, your eyes going to to the half full container of jam. It was the last one, the last until someone donated some to the hospital, or the garden produced some fruit and made some more. It wouldn't hurt to steal just a pinch more, would it? Besides, a funeral was supposed to have a feast, and a bite of bread and a tablespoon of jam was no feast, that was table scraps! 

You dipped your fingers into the thick jam, and opened your mouth wide, plopping the sweet food into your mouth. Dollop after dollop soon followed, and you hummed in contentment, the gnawing in your stomach becoming just a quiet grumble now. It was so good, too good for words, you wondered if your stubby fingers could even reach all the way to the bottom of the-

"Sister, you're back?" You paused, jam stuck to your cheeks and fingers, the jar raised in the air for the best picking angle. Muffled footsteps and a candlelight advanced upon you, and the shadow slowly morphed into the shape of a short blonde, her green eyes narrowed as she took in your appearance. "What on earth are you doing?"

You swallowed your jam, but didn't lower the jar, hoping more would slide closer to your fingers. Getting up and getting a spoon was too much of a hassle at this point. "Evening, Sister Margret. Just having myself a right old funeral."

"Really?" She knelt down, putting the brass candle holder on the alter steps. "For who?"

"Dunno, monster I guess." You poked at the envelope you'd made earlier. "Had to sweep up the dust, but didn't want to throw it out."

The woman hummed. "Well, eating has nothing to do with a funeral, not really, anyway. Going through our rations certainly doesn't honor the dead, and it doesn't help your sickness either." She slipped a hand into her habit, pulling out a wooden box. She set it on the steps, and took out a needle, the vial was filled with a murky brown fluid. "Hold out your arm, please."

You stuck your finger in the jar, grabbing the last of the jam, before setting it beside you. You unbuttoned the clasps for your sleeve and pulled it up, revealing a thick metal tubing drilled into your arm.  Margret pushed the needle in, making a shudder go down your spine. It didn't hurt as she pushed down the fluid, but you didn't like that. NOT feeling it felt alien to you, like it was against nature. 

Once the vial was empty, Margret pulled the vial out, blood clinging to the needle. She wiped it off with a blood dotted handkerchief from the box, before setting the needle away. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"..."

She tucked the box back into her habit, and stood up, her bones creaking. "Help me back to my room now, kneeling like that takes it out of me." You remained sitting, staring at your now empty jar. "Come on, you can get back to your monster funeral in a minute. I don't even know why you're having it, did you know them?"

"No..."

"Well, that means God won't mind if you take a second to walk an old bitty back to her room then."

You pushed yourself up, carefully balancing the candle holder as you did, before you stretched out your uninjured arm for Margret to take. Now that the gnawing had stopped, and your belly was so full, you felt tired. Maybe after you took Margret back, you'd just got to bed, you'd had the funeral, the spirit should be appeased. Your heart bursting with satisfaction of good deeds, and exhaustion, you made your way out of the chapel, leaving the monster dust and jar behind.


	2. A Waltz Through the Debt Collector's Office

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You decide to play hero, kinda...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore Level: None
> 
> But there's some not so nice themes...

The next day was Sunday. 

Sister Anna lead the choir in the hymns, her hands moving wildly as if possessed by the holy ghost. The choir hit all of their notes, and it made the little old ladies in the front cry, and the children sing along off key. When the hymns were finished, the Abbess told the sermon, her pale blue eyes peering down at all of them with a sternness that hadn't changed in the twenty years that you'd been here. Once the final prayer was said, and everyone hauled themselves off the floor, you made your way to Margret. The woman was ushering a few of the children out of the chapel, and back into the medical wing of the church. You followed behind the woman and her gaggle of children, hands in your dress pockets. 

"Margret, do you have a second?"

The woman glanced back to you, eyebrows furrowed, a hand ripping Tom's hand out of Marie's blonde curls. "You turn blind already?"

"After you deal with them."

Penny tittered on the stair, her chubby hands grappling at the wooden banister. Mei-Li lingered beside her, a hand on the girl's back, keeping her from tipping backwards and falling onto the other four children behind them both. "Sister Margret," She said.  "I can take the others to the room."  

Margret faltered for a moment, before she glanced back to you. After a moment she sighed, and nodded. "Fine, but make sure you all straighten up that mess from this morning. Sister Alice will throw a fit when she comes around for your check up."

"Yes, ma'am."

The older girl took over Margret's job, unsurprisingly they listened more to the twelve year old than the forty-six year old. The old woman shook her head, and waved her hand, beckoning you down the hallway. They passed by a few of the hospital in-mates and a few stragglers that came by since this was the only Roman Catholic church in the entire Quarantine district. They all nodded to Sister Margret, though more than one raised an eyebrow at you, or ignored you completely. The woman paused outside a small door, and opened it, revealing an office. There was just a desk and two chairs shoved in a corner next to a window, and light blue curtains that blocked out the sight of the city. It was clean and neatly organized, painfully so. You pulled your hands out of your pockets and sat in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. It wasn't lady like, but Margret had never cared about your manners.

Margret eased herself into her own chair on the other side of the desk, and opened up a drawer. She plucked out a small journal, and a black in pen, and set both on the desk. She flipped open the journal, and made a mark in it. "So, what did you want to speak about?"

"The Abbess said we're low on funds again."

"It happens every winter." She said dismissively. "It's not the end of the world in the least. Mr. Colombo always calls in his debts before Christmas, better than when his father was in charge. Used to call them in just before Easter, as if it was some kind of game." She shook her head. "It'll be alright, we have just enough to cover the debt, and a little left over for the bills."

"That's not it." You said, and Margret looked up from the book, her mouth drawing into a thin line. "We owe him again. I heard it last week, down from Sister Dawn. Mr. Colombo's guy had to bump off Mrs. Hannah-"

"That's more than enough." You shut your mouth. "Mrs. Hannah ran away, we didn't hire anyone to kill her." Margret said, raking a hand down her face. "Listening to the street gossip will get you in trouble, Sister. I know you're out in the world more than most of us, but you must remember you're not of it. Do you understand?"

"..."

"Sister F-"

"I understand..." You pushed yourself up, and smoothed out your skirt. "I'm gonna go out, tell the Abbess for me?"

Margret nodded, scribbling something in the journal. "Yes, yes. That's fine, just come back before supper."

As if you'd ever miss a meal, you thought as you made your way out of the office. Just the thought made your stomach growl, and a shot of pain wriggled through your body, eating at all the muscles and bones. You'd eaten breakfast an hour ago, maybe you could use a little of your allowance to buy a treat while you were out. Just something small, not a whole meal and a half. You hurried through the church and out the door, the taste of apples and cinnamon on your tongue. 

* * *

You'd heard a lot about Mr. Colombo from your fellow factory workers. He owned plenty of the speakeasies and the whore houses up and down the Quarantine District. He also bribed the local police force, owned the biggest newspaper in the District, and managed to cobble together an alliance with the other three human families, and an uneasy truce with one of the monster families. Your mother would have called him a visionary, someone that you should look up to, despite his...occupation of choice. The church had always owed the family since they smuggled in the medicine, and they were technically in monster territory, which meant an additional bill had to be payed up for protection. The Grave family was viscous, and more often than not everything had to be locked up for fear that the monsters would drag them all out of their beds, or just set the entire church on fire.

You stared down at the envelope in your hand. It was heavier this morning, and it made your stomach twist to look at it. Or maybe it was the idea planted in your head, just a tiny thing from a newspaper you'd ended up reading while eating some hotcakes at the local diner. It was a sin sure, but you were probably gonna go to hell anyway, and it was for a good cause right? Technically you wanted to settle the church's debt with Mr. Colombo, but the reward had looked pretty spiffy too. A whole bundle of scratch, just for some dust of a certain monster. You licked your lips, the taste of maple sweetening your tongue, and hurried across the street before another trolley made its way through the street. 

The late afternoon sun rained down on you, and reflected off the windows of the shops that you passed by. An old man played a banjo on the street, his glassy eyes staring into nothing as he played an obscure tune. A couple passed you by, the man holding a box that had a rosy ribbon wrapped around the cardboard, and the woman was petting an all black cat. The woman turned her nose up at you, and the man placed a hand on the small of her back, speeding up his steps. Your fingers curled a bit harder into your palms, but you didn't let your bored look change as you crossed the street again, and walked alongside a stand of fresh fruit. A man with crooked teeth was putting more pears on one of the wooden stands. He gave you a nod, and you nodded back, though you didn't stop. If you stopped, you'd blow the rest of your meager funds on food, and you had a mission to attend to anyway. 

 You made your way through a small alley, that opened up to another street. A small boutique was wedged between a barber shop and a gallery. You read the gallery sign, the looping gold letters so familiar, even if it was your first time seeing it. You walked up to the door and opened it, a small bell chiming, letting the nearly abandoned shop know you'd entered. A slim woman hurried up to you, her black hair in a stylish bob, her lips painted a bright red. Those lips faltered when they saw you, and her blue eyes flickered to a muscular man leaning against an ornately carved desk. "W-welcome, may I help you?"

Well, you weren't turned away immediately. You normally weren't allowed in fancy places like this, you almost wanted to back out again and see if it was a joke. You pushed the shock out of your mind and took a deep breath. "Heard you had a Taurus Setra piece."

The woman blinked, and her own nervousness seemed to bleed away, causing the man to settle down as well. "Mr. Setra's piece is a rare treat in any gallery, but it might get you thrown in the pen just looking at it."

"Not a problem."

The woman nodded, and guided you through the gallery. Your boots echoed on the tiled floor, and the paintings on the walls vied for your attention. A flurry of blues, greens, and reds all swirled and created gorgeous pieces that even the stained glass in the church would be jealous of. Eventually you made it to a large painting that managed to go from the wall to the ceiling. It was a painting of a rose garden, the pinks and reds were offset by a pale girl sitting in the middle of them, a white bow tangled in her blonde hair. She held a tea cup to her lips, and the knowing smile seemed to tease the idea that she wasn't nearly as innocent as she appeared. 

The woman took the edge of the picture frame, and pulled. It opened seamlessly, and a gaping chasm that lead down a steep staircase was all you could see. You could hear the upbeat tune of a jazz song, accompanied by a canary that had a good set of pipes. You turned back to the woman, and she slipped you a coin, before putting a finger to her lips. 

You turned back to the stairs, and made your way down. Your hand gripped the rickety banister, and your eyes fought to get used to the dark. The jazz music slowly became louder, and you could now understand the lyrics to the song the canary was crooning. Some kind of love song, the kind that would have made Sister Margret wash your mouth out with soap if she ever heard you sing it. Laughter and chatter bled in with the song, along with the clink of glasses, and something slamming down hard. At the end of the staircase light bled through a door, and two men stood in front of it. You went up to them, digging your hand into your pocket for the small coin the woman had given you. The taller of the two snatched it, and held it up, staring at the stamped side. 

"It real?" The shorter one asked, tilting his head as he tried to take a look as well. "Looks fake to me."

"Nah, it's real." He tossed it back to you. "Probably came from Lottie herself."

He stepped aside and opened the door for you, and light washed through the hallway, stinging your eyes. The smell of alcohol was heavy now, and brought with it so many memories you just couldn't count them all. The song and chatter swirled with them, and it all bled into your never ending hunger, making your heart fill with...Something. You made your way inside the speakeasy, a hand firm on your pocket, eyes searching through the crowd. You'd never seen so many smiling people in your life, it was as if you'd found the very bed of happiness. The women giggled on the laps of the men as they played cards, and the men would kiss them full on the mouth when they won a hand. Drinks were downed, and some splashed onto the table or clothes, and cigars were lit and the smoke twisted in the air. 

It was wild and dangerous, but it made you giddy all the same. 

You went up to the bar, where a bald man was pouring up a drink for a slouched over man in a blue suit. The bartender glanced up when you sat on the stool, but otherwise didn't say anything. You dug a hand in your pocket, and pulled out the last of your allowance, setting it on the polished bartop. This seemed to peek the man's interest, though he remained stiff. "I wanna see Mr. Colombo."

The man plucked up your money, and slipped them into his pant's pocket. "Look, doll. I know every other blackie between here and Memphis knows that Mr. Colombo has a...fetish for you people, but this ain't enough to even sit at the same table with him." He plucked up a scotch glass and filled it up in the sink, before sitting it in front of you. "Thanks for the tip though. Here's your water."

You stared at the cup, your hand gripping the bar. You did a lot of low down and dirty things, even worse now that your 'disease' had come along. You'd stolen things, had sex out of wedlock, even tripped a puppy. But never once had you sold your body, it wasn't something that you could stomach. Your mother had done it out of greed, you weren't going to do that. You weren't that stupid. You dragged your hand off the bartop, and slipped it back into your pocket, you gripped the envelope and slung it onto the bar. The man next to you paused, his shot glass half way to his mouth, while the bar tender just rolled his eyes. "So what, you've got a fancy envelope."

"It's monster dust." You spat. "Remember the Grave family? Remember Mr. Colombo wanted their Don?"

The bar tender shook his head wildly, grey eyes wide. "That ain't, it can't be-"

"Sans Grave." You said, a twisted sense of happiness filling your chest at seeing his shocked face. "And I bet Mr. Colombo will wanna see it."

The man slipped from behind the bar, and out a door wedged between two tables filled with arguing people. No one would lie about something so serious, not unless they didn't value their life. You watched the door, licking your lips, the bitter taste of a cigar igniting across your tongue. You hoped he hurried up, you had to be back at the church in two hours. 

"Ya, got some guts." You glanced back to your neighbor, he had gone back to drinking. Now that you were actually looking at him, he wasn't all that big, probably shorter than you. His clothes looked pretty spiffy, and he wore gloves, the kind you expected to see at a funeral, not a normal winter day. "Lyin' to that bastard. Ya don't got anythin' left to lose, huh."

"Excuse me?"

"Ya see, the thing I'm all confused 'about, is why you'd choose a monster. Outta all the old man's enemies, ya wanna choose something that'd gobble your pretty face up in a second." He set down his glass and he looked up, a single red pupil stared at you through the darkness of his fedora. He held out a gloved hand, and you took it, cold leeching through the leather and into your body. Something was wrong, so very wrong..."Name's Sans, Sans the Skeleton."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Reader is black. I wanted to portray a reader who would have a different experience to most reader inserts in the fandom. Since, technically, this is an AU set in the 1920's-ish. Anyway, our poor baby met Sans. She really should have picked a better time to come lie about killing him. XD
> 
> Know what picked a better time? My tumblr! http://nihilismpastry.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, that's reader. She brought home the dust, and doesn't seem to believe in 'proper' Christianity, despite living in a convent. And yes, she seems to be sick, but with what I wonder? Yeah, I have nothing much to say this time.
> 
> Know what has plenty to say? My tumblr! http://nihilismpastry.tumblr.com/


End file.
